The Bone is Pointed. Arthur W. Upfield
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“How did he receive word about the sick lubra?”
“I don’t know. Mulga wire, I suppose.”
“This Meena Lake is how many miles from here?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“You missed him the next morning, at what time?”
“Half-past seven.”
Bony looked beyond the Sergeant and out the open window. For nearly a minute neither man spoke.
“I suppose that the old lubra out at this Deep Well was really ill. Did you ever check up on that point?”
“Well, no.”
“We’ll have to. An old lubra is reported ill at Deep Well which is forty-two miles from this place where Abie is employed as a tracker. During the vital night it is raining hard, and Abie walks twenty-eight miles to Meena Lake, and a further fourteen miles to Deep Well to find the woman not dying. On the face of those facts the blacks made an extraordinarily bad mistake. You know, my dear Blake, I am already becoming interested in this case. There is another point.
“It was never established that on the morning that Anderson last rode Green Swamp his horse was carrying a neck-rope. The next morning when the groom found the animal at the gate there was no neck-rope, though it was Anderson’s custom to have one with him. We mustn’t lose sight of the probability that the horse carried a neck-rope on that fatal day, and that when the man vanished the neck-rope as well as the stockwhip vanished with him.”
Sergeant Blake nodded his agreement. He noted with interest the gleam in the blue eyes, and his interest was increased when Bony took a pen and wrote on a slip of paper. The writing was pushed towards him, and he read:
“There is someone standing outside the window. Look out and see who he is. Have him in if possible.”
Without a sound the Sergeant’s chair was raised and lifted back. With catlike tread he moved to the window and then, in swifter action, he thrust his head beyond the sill. The delighted Bony heard him grunt before shouting:
“What the devil are you doing there, Wandin?”
The answering voice was unmistakably aboriginal.
“Waiting for you, Sargint. Wantum money buy terbaccer.”
“Oh, do you? You come in here, quick.”
Blake moved clear of the window, and Bony saw a tall black figure pass it to reach the front door. Followed then the padding of naked feet in the passage. He stood up beside Blake to await the coming of this Wandin, who, he knew, had been leaning against the wall within a foot or so of the wide-open window.
A tall, gaunt, spindle-legged aboriginal entered the office to stand just inside the doorway and gently rub the naked left foot with the toes of the right foot. He was cleanly shaved, and his cotton shirt and dungaree trousers were reasonably clean. He wore no hat. His hair was full and greying. Over his long face was spread a grin as he looked alternately from the Sergeant to Bony. It was a foolish grin deliberately to conceal anxiety, which the black eyes failed to do.
“What were you doing out there?” Blake asked, sharply.
“Nuthin,’ Sargint. Jes’ waitin’.”
“What for?”
“Money fer terbaccer, Sargint. No terbaccer. You give me two tree schillin’?”
Bony now stepped forward to stand close to the blackfellow who was taller than he was.
“You Wandin, eh?”
“Yes. Too right!”
“You stand outside listening ’cos you want tobacco. Look!”
Wandin bent his head to look at the point of his trousers where a large plug of tobacco was distinctly outlined. When the eyes were again raised to meet the steady blue eyes the unease behind them was stronger still. Yet he continued to smile, foolishly, and said: “Funny, eh? I forgot.”
Now Bony was smiling, and swiftly his two hands went upwards to grasp the edges of the open shirt and to draw them farther apart. Wandin stiffened, and from his cicatrized chest Bony’s gaze rose again to meet the angry black eyes.
“You plenty beeg blackfeller, eh?” he said softly. “You have plenty magic, eh? You marloo totem feller. Me—I know signs. Now you go out and you go look-see police horse.”
The detective turned back to his chair at the desk, and Blake repeated the order to look to the horse in the stable. Without speaking, Wandin left, the soft padding of his feet coming to them from the passage. Through the open window Blake saw him leave the building and round an angle of it before he himself resumed his seat.
“Do you think he was listening to us?” he asked, a frown puckering his eyes.
“He’s a most intelligent aboriginal gentleman, Sergeant. I quite think he was listening. Anyway, I hope so. Yes, this case already reveals possibilities of absorbing interest. Is your clock right?”
“Was last night by the wireless signal.”
“Good! By the way, in your report you didn’t state whether Anderson was wearing a hat the day he vanished. In fact, you haven’t mentioned his clothes.”
“I took it for granted that he was wearing a hat.”
“You mentioned a saddle-bag containing a serviette that had been used to wrap his lunch in, but you did not say whether, also attached to the saddle, there was a quart-pot. Was there?”
“Yes, there was. I saw the saddle later.”
“You see, it is necessary to establish what disappeared with Anderson. We know that his stockwhip did. Probably he was wearing a hat, a felt hat. And it is probable that round the horse’s neck was a rope, neatly rolled and knotted, with which to secure the animal when Anderson stopped for lunch or was obliged to repair the fences. If that rope was discovered, say, here in your office—You see the point? So it would be with his hat, or any other article associated with him that fatal day. I will go into the matter at Karwir. Would you ring Mr Lacy and ask him if he will put me up? Say Detective-Inspector Bonaparte. He might give Bony room in the men’s hut.”
Blake grinned and reached for the telephone attached to the wall at his side. When he had called the exchange, and while he was waiting for the connection, Bony said, chuckling:
“The title, added to the illustrious name I bear, often goes far in securing me comfortable quarters. Alas! I love comfort. I am soft, I know, but being soft keeps me back from the bush which to me is ever a great danger.”
Blake spoke, addressing Mr Lacy, so that Bony knew not whether father or son was at the other end of the line.
“Mr Lacy will be very pleased to put you up,” the Sergeant said, turning back to him. “If you like, he will send his son in the aeroplane for you.”
“Thank Mr Lacy. Say I will be glad to accept his offer of modern transport. I am ready to leave Opal Town when the machine arrives here.”
“Well, that’s that!” Blake said, having replaced the absurd horn contraption on its hook. “You’ll like the Lacys.”
“Oh yes, of that I have no doubt,” concurred Bony. “In fact, I believe I am going to enjoy myself on this investigation. Its basic facts please me immensely—which is why I consented to come.”
“Consented to come!” echoed Blake abruptly, very much the policeman.
“That is what I said. You know, Blake, were I not a rebel against red tape and discipline I should be numbered among the ordinary detectives who go here and go there and do this and that as directed. Team work, they call it. I am never a part of a team. I am always the team. As I told you, I think, once I begin an investigation I stick to it until it is finished. Authority and time mean little to me, the investigation everything. That is the